Undead Horde
Hard Stats: 3 3 2 (2 agi, 1 str, 2 int, 1 wis) Nightmare stats: 7 3 4 (4 agi, 3 str, 2 int, 1 wis); 105 cards Rewards: Rift Shards and Medals Deck List The enemy's deck has: (See Enemy Deck for more information) Alphabetical Table Lore --Part 1-- It should have been a dark and stormy night. It should have been, but weather never has a flair for dramatic flair when it's needed. Instead, a pregnant moon hung low in a cloudless sky, surrounded by bright twinkling stars. In this light, the Dead Keep looked perfectly normal: an imposingly large castle with a bustling town built around it. On a hill nearby, Captain Morta looked over the six men of his crew, the War Hounds. They were professionals, all former soldiers who had worked together on several several dozen missions. If they were feeling any apprehension, it didn't show on their faces. Instead, they went through the motions of checking their armor and equipment one last time. Morta's eyes settled on the figure at the edge of the clearing. He had approached the company over a month ago, offering an obscene amount of platinum for what sounded like a fairly standard infiltration job. According to their employer, the War Hounds were to help him get into a fortress so he could access "The Library" and plumb its shelves for forbidden knowledge. It all seemed fairly normal, so a price had been named, hands had been shaken, and an accord had been struck. But since then, more details had begun to emerge and Morta's enthusiasm for the assignment quickly turned to wariness. They weren't breaking into any castle, they were infiltrating the Dead Keep -- stronghold of Lady Macar, the Undead Queen. Exactly what they were supposed to help the man steal hadn't been revealed, either, Morta had been told that they were just there to help keep him safe. Other details had been glossed over by the man, too: The team didn't need to worry about how they were getting into the keep, their employer already had the route planned out. They couldn't bring any magical equipment of their own, since his own artifacts were "highly sensitive" and might react in unforeseen ways. The list went on, but every concern Morta raised was dismissively waved away with another promise of extra platinum and a vague statement that everything was already taken care of. Morta had immediately researched his client as soon as he agreed to the contract. Anyone who used "The Wicked" as his title was clearly unbalanced, and Morta didn't have any desire to wind up working for an imbecile who would get either him or his men killed. One by one, he heard back from other sell-swords, all of whom seemed to have the same opinion: The man was competent, but completely amoral. He'd feast on a child's still-beating heart in front of its mother if he could gain power from the act, and would have no problem leaving you behind if it meant he could escape a situation unharmed. So, Morta was upfront with his men: The assignment was risky, and if things went sideways, they were to cut and run. He would deal with any any displeasure from the client, hopefully while he had a knife in his hand. Morta was many things, but he was not a moron. One by one, the War Hounds finished checking their gear and nodded to Morta. He walked over to Aleister the Wicked, who was meditating quietly on the hillside. "Sir." Morta's tone was respectful, which was something he knew Aleister valued in his underlings. "We're ready." Aleister opened his eyes and tilted his head, the moonlight dancing off the metallic trim sewn into his headpiece (which only felt increasingly ridiculous the more time Morta spent in the man's company). He stood up, the sizable girth of his midsection only slowing him down a little, and cracked his knuckles before striding down the hill towards the keep. "Well, it's about time." Morta took a couple of deep, calming breaths before he followed. He had to remind himself: He couldn't punch the man's lights out until he'd received the final payment. --Part 2-- So far, they hadn't encountered much resistance as they moved through the tunnels leading to the keep. Oh, there had been a few solitary ghouls and zombies roaming around, but they were wild things devoid of any real self-awareness. As such, they hadn't posed much of a challenge to the War Hounds. The map within Aleister's journal had proven accurate, showing a long-forgotten cave outside the town that connected to the tunnels they were now in. The book actually predated Macar's occupation, apparently the diary of the keep's architect during the construction phase, which meant there was a good chance her forces had never been aware of the underground network. That seemed to be the case, as the War Hounds had seen no disturbances in the dust and dirt while they skulked through the tunnels. Now, they stood in a chamber with a massive door on the other end, which presumably led into the cellars of the keep itself. So far, this had been easy going; now was when things would start to get difficult. Morta snapped off a few silent commands with the sign language he and his men had adapted from their time in the army. One man took position to open the door, while two more stood a few feet back and aimed their crossbows at the doorway. The remaining men stood off to the side, their swords at the ready. Aleister stood in the corner, arms crossed, and tapping his foot impatiently. Morta grimaced in irritation, but he was a professional. He wasn't going to back out of a contract just because his employer was an ass. He clenched his fist, the signal for his men to go ahead. The man at the door nodded and heaved the handle. The door was an ancient thing, but it still looked solid enough to withstand a battering ram. The hinges were rusted, meaning Morta's man had to exert some serious effort just to budge the door. After a minute of straining, it finally began to move. Unfortunately, the rusted hinges killed any chance at a stealthy infiltration, squealing loud enough that dogs were probably barking as far as East Kruna. But, inch by inch, the door screeched open. Morta strode and grabbed onto the handle, lending his strength and finally yanking it wide. On the other side there were zombies. A lot of zombies. They stood at the ready, armed and armored, completely still in that unnerving way only the living dead can pull off. And there were several dozen of them packed into the room like sardines, as opposed to the seven men (eight, if you included Aleister, which Morta didn't) who were still breathing. The carrion horde took in the living interlopers and, in perfect sync with one another, began to spill through the door with a relentless march. The archers immediately opened fire, their bolts splitting the zombies' skulls like rotten fruit; the corpses stumbled and fell, crushed beneath the boots of their brethren marching over their remains. The War Hounds began a judicious retreat, gracefully taking apart any zombies who came within reach of their weapons. So far, it was a one-sided battle in favor of the living men, but the undead would be able to force the soldiers back through the tunnels for quite some time before they were no longer a threat. Morta did some quick time estimates in his head and realized it would probably be well past dawn before they could stage another incursion into the keep. By then, the Empress of Nightmares would be well aware of the fact that someone had tried to break into her home, and the risk would be too great to make another break-in attempt. As the group continued to fall back towards the tunnel entrance on the other side of the room, there was an annoyed sigh from Aleister. "By the Abyss, you can't even handle this challenge?" The snide words rankled Morta, even in the midst of a melee. "Why am I even paying you?" Aleister strode forward and produced a small red-jeweled rod from one of the pouches on his belt. He gave a casual wave and every single zombie crumbled to dust in an instant. The rod's jewel, in turn, lost its color and faded to a dark hue before several cracks split its face. The sorcerer gave the tool a cursory glance and then dismissively dropped it to the dirt floor. "Well, come on." Aleister swept his cape up in what Morta guessed was meant to be a dramatic pose (his stomach substantially diminished the effect, though) and then marched through the door. "I didn't hire you to stand around." Morta muttered to himself as he and the rest of the War Hounds followed close behind. "You can't kill him until you get paid." The story continues at Champions of Kruna. Category:Undead